Pretty like drugs
by RadiantRedWrath
Summary: Do you want to dance?


**A/N: While trying to work on a different fic this little number invaded my brain and just wouldn't let go. No matter how much I tweak it I'm not quite happy but it's just sitting on my computer and distracting me. So this is it. I'm posting it and that's that. Let me know what you think:)**

**Disclaimer: I make no money from this story. I don't own Black Lagoon or the characters. Nor do I own the lyrics typed in italics. They are from the song 'Pretty like drugs' by Queen Adreena. **

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Pretty like Drugs.

'_The world is watching as I take my last breath, the world is watching as I get undressed, cos I'm pretty like drugs.'_

He knocks out of courtesy and out of habit but he didn't expect for one second that she'd actually be able to hear him. The music was too loud; the dirty, fuzz thrum of the guitar vying with the pounding drums for dominance. The deceptively sweet sounding vocals kick into high gear winning the battle with a show of sheer superiority; a wrathful serenade of unspoken vengeance. He could see why she liked it.

He sighed. Steeling his nerves he cautiously opened the door and took that final step inside.

Sunlight laser beams cutting through the windows are painfully brighter than the flat florescent lighting in the hallway. For a moment he is blinded, one hand coming up to shield himself from the sudden assault. When his eyes finally focus, he freezes almost instantly. He feels light headed, the oxygen frozen in his lungs. A pulse throbs inside his skull. The thunder of drums; both his heartbeat and music twined together in a discordant melody. All it takes is just that one split second, a lightning strike, the blink of an eye and he is hooked. The image burns itself into his retinas, marks him like a mass of keloid scar.

She has her back to him, dressed in one of her usual tank tops and a pair of small black panties, neither of which leave much to the imagination. He's seen her in less but right then it doesn't matter.

She's been in the shower; her hair is still wet, slicked back. Her skin glistens in the light. A few small beads of water still linger in a thin trail along her neck. The almost irresistible urge to capture them with his tongue seizes him; he's trembling like he's missed his latest fix.

He is mesmerised as she sways her hips provocatively in time with the beat. She lacks the refinement of a ballet dancer but not the elegance. She's like the rise and fall of the tide; more graceful than most would expect. He's never doubted it, not since the gunfight in the bar on the day they met and now, just like then, he is transfixed at the sight of tight muscle and sinew rippling just beneath the surface of all that silken, sun-kissed skin.

He nervously swallows his groan, forcing the lump back down his sand paper throat.

He watches as she seductively traces the lines of her body with her hands. Follows every contour with a gentle caress. The movement is hypnotic, so perfectly captivating it looks almost choreographed; he can't help but wonder if she has planned this undemanding seduction. His fingers twitch spastically. He wants to replace hers with his own. His traitorous brain is flashing like a Polaroid; images of her lithe figure brazenly writhing on top of him, under him (he doesn't really care which), are etched in the forefront of his mind.

He is disappointed when the song ends; all that's left is the comedown.

He knows that now might be a good time to announce himself but his body has betrayed him; his tongue is too thick in his mouth and his lungs are refusing to work. He is left standing, fist clenching the door handle with a white knuckled death grip. It groans softly in protest but it may as well be a siren because she still hears it and wheels around suddenly aware that she is no longer alone. His eyes capture her in slow motion, the movement fluid and sinuous and for no God damn reason so fucking enthralling.

He expects her to be angry; he's crossed the invisible line she scratched in the proverbial sand a while back. Instead she flashes him a cruel serpentine smile that's all needle teeth and malice. The blood drains from his face. As fearsome as he finds her ire, it is so common place that he knows for her to react without it can be so much worse.

'Well Rock?' her voice is like velvet and he doesn't know how to react; this isn't the same cordite tempered woman he is used to dealing with. Her eyes meet his and he tries desperately to scrape his jaw of the floor before she decides to make it the contents of his skull. She quirks an eyebrow expectantly. He stammers, a jumbled mass of vowels rolling uselessly of his tongue; where is his usual notable eloquence?

Her movements are fluid, reminiscent of a lioness as she glides towards him. She stalking him and he's got nowhere to run. With both hands she slams him back against the door pinning him with her body as she grinds herself against him, her movements almost licentious. It forces a strangled whimper from his throat. He feels his cheeks flush. This close there is no way to hide the effect she has on him. She tangles one hand in his hair, gives it a sharp yank to bend him.

She means to break him; he means to let her.

Her face is so close her lips brush against his, her whisper a feather kiss as she breathes her suggestive challenge.  
"See something you like?"

A sudden blow to the skull almost knocks him off his seat. It reverberates around the inside of his cranium, makes his vision swim. Unconsciously he brings his arms up to protect himself. There is a well timed laugh from the apartment next door; he can't help but imagine that it is aimed at him as he peers out from between his arms, guiltily meeting her gaze. He barely manages to resist the ingrained urge to bow in apology.

"You had that dozy look on your face again dipshit! You ok?" She asks taking another lazy drag on her smouldering cigarette. He sighs. Despite her seeming concern, if he dared to tell her what was on his mind he was sure that his daydream would quickly be reduced to ash. He knocks back the shot she's placed in front of him, silently cursing the slight quaver of his fingers. Again he's drunk far too much and it hurts, in his lungs, his head and in his heart, just being near her.

"I think I'm going to call it a night."

She doesn't respond or give any indication that she even heard him. Instead she stands and he watches wordlessly as she crosses the room, one finger jabbing harshly at the buttons of a beat up old stereo. The speakers whine and crackle in protest as they emit a familiar chord that pricks his ears. His reaction is Pavlovian; just like that his skin is on fire. He is relapsing, his senses tripping over the memory like a bad habit.

She violently crushes the stub of her cigarette into the nicotine stained ashtray before turning to face him; for one split second he feels the strike that he's come to expect but doesn't always earn. Instead she offers him a disarming smile that's as honest as it is ruthless. In that moment she is nothing less than stunning.

When she speaks, she asks out of courtesy but he never once doubts that it is actually a command.

"Wanna dance?"

'_I load the gun, I wax and I wane, subject all my pain onto you baby, cos I'm pretty like drugs.'_


End file.
